The croissant had just the right crispness to it.
” Yes, they brought the towels and thank you for doing that, but I need soap for the sink.”
The views from the 22nd floor were stunning. From the East you could see the Silver Cup Studios sign and from the other side of the atrium you could see the Empire State Building already lit up red and green for the holidays, vibrating amidst a vast New York Cityscape.
I wanted to be cosmopolitan, so I redecorated my veranda using a sea green, vinyl bus seat, and I hung a Chinese lantern as my muse. I drank only the bitterest coffee sent directly from Jamaica through a friend of a friend’s ex.
I felt no different.
Continue reading “A Cosmopolitan Epiphany Regarding a Certain Cecil by E.K.”
For this week we have a wee change. Apparently it’s as good as a rest. So I will get on with the review and take it from there.
Continue reading “Week 107 – Fledglings, Success And Rhino Skin”
The tiny clearing off to the side was cooler than the obscenely voluminous garden with its organized cacophony of colors – massed vermilions and oranges alongside indigos, violets, and fuchsias, eye-popping yellows and the occasional calm of white or cream. Cedars bent over an exquisite pool, granite lined, with water more crystalline than glass. Almost lost between moss-padded banks that nearly met, a miniscule stream fed the pool, dribbling over mammoth slate slabs stacked like pricey leather-bound books resting on deep emerald velvet.
Vernon looked at the menu. He saw
Breakfast Special
$2.95
in a box in the lower left-hand corner. That included orange juice, eggs, grits, coffee and a pastry. But he was in the mood for a proper chowdown. A matronly waitress came over and said, “What’ll it be, sweetie?” Vernon said, “I’ll have the pancakes, then the eggs and sausages. Fried eggs. What kind of pie you got?” The waitress said, “Apple, cherry, blueberry, pecan, lemon meringue.” Vernon said, “Yeah, give me blueberry – no, no, make that lemon meringue.” The waitress poured his coffee and brought him the pancakes with a small pitcher of maple syrup and a few pats of butter in a dish.
In the kitchen of a cottage nestled among oak trees they waited – for neighbour, for colleague; for broken doors and strangers with zip-lock bags. Jay was long gone, whipping across fields, toward the blockhouse he’d carved with nails and fire. He crawled into peace and wished he could stay, wished he could curl up on the soft, wet earth and sleep. But if he did they would find him, find him without looking and he wasn’t ready for that medicine, for any medicine – just now his liberty was a sickness he refused to cure. He dug up his plane ticket, kicked things quiet and headed toward the airport.
Well folks, that’s the festivities by for another year. I hope Santa’s sack was plentiful and The New Year Whisky Pixie was just as generous.
New Year is very relevant in this part of the world so I made that my inspiration for this weeks post before next week when it wouldn’t be just as relevant!
You see, the powers that be (Sky) in their wisdom decided that they wanted an Old Firm match (Celtic and Rangers) played on the 31st. Now the clubs didn’t want this, The Police didn’t want this, the hospitals didn’t want this and any sensible folks from Glasgow didn’t want this. However, the old saying that ‘Money Talks and to hell with sense’ kicked in.
So I would like to give you a walk through that day for some. Well, since New Year fell on the weekend, it actually started on the Friday with some social continual excessive drinking. On the day of the match, those who follow football…Who, to be fair aren’t always the problem and those who don’t, who can be, would either go to the match or find a pub where they could racially abuse their family and friends who they’d been drinking with the night before. At the end of the game they would toast the coming New Year, toast the pope or the queen and then glass each other. They would all bond once again by being sick all over A&E.
The lucky ones would be released from hospital or jail in time for The Bells. They’d be friends again and drink more, laugh at each other’s stitches and sing Auld Lang Syne at midnight. A breakfast of steak pie and peas would be consumed at around 1.00am. This would begin to sober people up so they’d have to drink copious amounts of lager and whisky until the time of the morning came that required another traditional breakfast. At around 10.00am they would enjoy a large plate of bacon and eggs. The eggs wouldn’t be poached or fried, they would be in the form of half a pint of Advocaat. They’d then watch the highlights of the football on the TV to remind themselves why they were all in stitches, and the result.
The weird thing is, we never hear much about the blood count, there are never many figures shown about hospital / ambulance / Police involvement or reports of domestic abuse, we just know that is there!
Now here is my very anorexic link to writing…This is one thing that all writers have avoided here in this country and that is using these social problems / acceptance as inspiration for a story. They never do and I just think that everyone has a fear that they will show sympathies for either one side or another. (Catholic or Protestant)
Me, I have tried and failed and really don’t care. And before I go on I know that I am actually talking about Church Of England but for whatever reason, one side of Glasgow swears allegiance so…I just wish that the queen is caught in a compromising position with the pope and it would shut both sides up!!!!
OK now onto our stories. They have been lying in limbo over the last few weeks but we hope that you agree that we have the year off to a cracking start.
We had some religious / business satire, Death Row, A lost love, a knowing partner and a bit of mystique to entertain you.
As always, our initial comments follow.
On Monday, we had a returning author. Raymond Hopkins was first up with his second story ‘Sandra’s Christmas‘.
‘I like the style and it made me grin.’
‘Good voice throughout.’
‘Well crafted and amusing.’
Mitchell Toews has shown himself to be a very hard working writer who is dedicated to his stories.
He had his fifth for the site published on Tuesday with ‘The Business Of Saving Souls‘
‘The characters were well drawn.’
‘The title was a very good fit for the content.’
‘Well constructed.’
We had a new author on Wednesday so we welcome Lewis Carter and hope he enjoys the experience. As always with anyone, we ask for more stories!
‘Departures‘ was next up.
”Lewis has hit on so many recognisable traits.’
‘Well paced.’
‘The twist at the end was perfectly positioned.’
Titus Green was next up. His second story ‘Profiteers Of The Second Chance Saloon‘ was published on Thursday.
‘Hard hitting and bitter.’
‘An uncompromised piece.’
‘This was bleak and honest.’
And even though it is a New Year, the end of the week is still Friday.
We had a second new author to complete our reading list. Again we welcome Andrew Miller and we hope that he enjoys this experience. Oh and that he sends us more work!!
‘After The Party‘ was last up.
‘This was really well put together.’
‘I was hooked.’
‘This intrigued.’
That’s the first week done and dusted.
So here’s to the next old firm game which I will ignore. I’d rather read some Grimms and listen to ‘The House Of A Thousand Corpses’ but I’ve got to admit, I’m partial to a large Advocaat!
Hugh
Her chiming phone, the ring tone meant to be soothing, shattered their sleep. Alice sat straight up. “Yes-yes, what is it?”
It was Mrs. Johnson, two doors away. Her daughter had not returned from last night’s party at the beach. Did Keith know what beach? Could he go down there? It was almost light.
I shiver in the darkness and clasp my precious cigarette in my fingers. It is the last of a carton bartered the hard, humiliating way and purchased with filthy favours given to foreign men with sweaty skin and dark complexions in the twilight shadows of the prison latrines. I dropped my self-respect into a volcano long ago, where it burnt to cinders. I have no possessions, and no assets to bequeath the wife and children I don’t have. Time is the only property I have left, and it is soon to be foreclosed. Days are the only currency I hold, and they are wasting away like the British pound. Time is just an empty word, drained of its relevance. Getting to the end of each day is my raison d’etre now, because I am a death row prisoner waiting for my summons.
Continue reading “Profiteers of the Second Chance Saloon By Titus Green”
We’d been drinking for hours when he asked me about her. Normally we talked about the rugby or pussy. It’s not that we didn’t have anything meaningful to say to each other; it’s just that when most guys get together they need an hour or two to talk shit before getting to anything real.
literally stories 